Her hair had come undone, spilling over the pillow. Her lips were parted the slightest bit. But what dragged him over to her side were the twist of the bed covers shoved downward in her slumbers and the lift of his night shirt, exposing lacey underthings, tightly tucked against her womanhood. He stared, his breaths stopped, then yanked the covers up to her waist.

  The motion of the cloth disturbed her. Her eyelids flickered, her pupils hazy at first, but growing cognizant. She pushed to a sitting position, the neckline of his shirt, too large for her, sliding off her left shoulder. Moistening her lips, she pressed them together and spoke his name. “Lafayette?”

  An inquiry merely, but in his ears the sweetest sound, a lure, an invitation to partake.

  CHAPTER 2

  His countenance pale, his eyes as large as the new moon, Lafayette looked ready to run. He held himself stiff, his arms distended, his fingers curled hard into his palms. He ground his teeth as well, his jaw muscles flexing, obviously agitated and fearful.

  “Are you well?” she asked, pretending he was none of those things. She also ignored his physicality; he was, at present, considerably excited, his manhood clear.

  “I lost track of time,” he replied.

  Lost track? She wondered if that were true, but didn’t question him on it. He’d returned, hadn’t he?

  “It’s just as well,” she said. “I was quite exhausted and would have made a poor companion.”

  “I did not mean to wake you …”

  She thought on that. He’d covered her and that had tossed her from sleep. Gazing at him again, she considered why he’d felt the need. The room was warm, despite the temperatures outside. Maybe he thought her uncomfortable.

  “It’s quite fine,” she continued. “I am awake now and more alert than I was. Perhaps, we can talk.”

  This brought a little relaxation to him, relief washing across his face, and it came to her that, as she was nervous about this night, he was as well. That must be it. She didn’t know what to expect, and he didn’t know how to behave.

  “Please …” Pigeon sat up taller, rearranging the pillow to prop herself. She patted the space at her side. “Sit with me. We should share our thoughts and speak frankly as husband and wife.”

  He showed some reluctance still, but, several seconds passing, rounded the end of the bed and perched himself there, half on, half off. She chose to ignore his odd positioning, deciding what would help him right then would be for her to act with some restraint.

  “Tell me about the farm,” she said. She hoped with that to get him to relax further.

  He cast his gaze toward the ceiling, one hand draped over his knee. “Twenty acres with a barn, painted crimson, and a house containing three rooms. It’s small but functional.”

  “You grow vegetables?”

  He nodded. “In the spring and summer. I have fresh cream from the cow; she’s elderly, but efficient. There are chickens for eggs. I am able to hunt successfully and keep the larder full.”

  “I confess I haven’t any idea how to clean and prepare animals.”

  This brought his gaze to hers.

  “I hope I didn’t give the impression otherwise. I like food, but haven’t cooked … much.” Not at all, in fact. When had she had any need growing up? They’d had servants for that.

  Doubt rested on his brow. “You said you were fair at it.”

  Pigeon bit her lip. Strange, but his gaze strayed there.

  “I may have exaggerated.”

  “You said you were taller … less … womanly as well.” He blurted this, then seemed immensely embarrassed to have said so.

  In thinking of the woman he should have wed, Pigeon understood why. They were dissimilar in every way, so far as physical shape, and not alike in age either. She should have considered an explanation for it before now. “Did I?” she asked. “I feel that way.”

  Lafayette seemed to churn that remark over, his previous watchfulness returning.

  “I confess I have an active imagination,” Pigeon continued. “Too much idle time spent reading the most fantastic stories. I don’t suppose a man, such as yourself, has done much of that.”

  He relaxed once more. “On the contrary, the Bible is full of stories.”

  His mentioning the Bible after how he’d snapped at her was interesting … and promising. She’d rather he not return to being so gruff.

  “But not love or romance …”

  Again, he negated her remark. “You have not read Solomon’s song.” He cleared his throat. “As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.”* As quickly as he’d opened himself to speak the passage, he closed down again. “It’s much longer and quite detailed,” he said, glancing aside.

  Anxious to prevent his brooding, Pigeon spoke the first thought to come to her head. “I’d like to hear it sometime … for … curiosity’s sake.” Her words faltered at the end, and she took in a quick breath. “It does not require your being anyone other than yourself as I see you now. In turn, I apologize for any misconceptions I’ve cast. We must learn to live together, and that will take time. I may need your guidance; you may find you need mine.”

  This must have touched something within him for he smiled. It was the first sunlight she’d seen on his face. It improved him considerably.

  “Why do I think your guidance will require more of me than I’m used to?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” she replied. “But I will say, up front, that I am often too forthright. I speak and act rashly out of passion, not taking a moment to think.”

  He surprised her then, doing that very thing. Leaning forward, he reached for the neck of the night shirt. Running his fingers around the rim, his hand trailed lower, rounding over her breast. His touch was fleeting, there and gone again. She heard her gasp, heard him grunt in response, and watched him fold in on himself. His eyes dark, he withdrew and laid flat, his hands on his chest like in a coffin.

  He wanted marriage, had sent for a wife. According to what she remembered of his letters, he’d asked the woman to come in time for Christmas, yet he appeared not ready to make a full commitment. That made her long for it all the more.

  She saw no wrongness in the longing. If God had brought them together, if she truly believed she’d been saved from death for him, then having a wish for union was as it should be … and a prayer God would answer. God would grant them love out of this, and they’d no longer be strangers, but friends, confidants, one in mind and flesh.

  “Lafayette,” she said. “For this first night, would you hold my hand?”

  He turned his face toward her, his forehead furrowed.

  “I think it is enough … for now.”

  He appeared to think it over, his nostrils flared. The minutes passing, he unfolded his arm and offered her the flat of his hand. She placed hers in it, warmed when he tightened his grip, and shutting her eyes, counted her heartbeats, each one perfectly aligned with his.

  “It will take us near all day to get there,” Lafayette said, snapping the wagon reins. The horse, a placid beast he'd brought with him from his previous home, bowed his aged head and trudged forward, the wagon rattling in their movement. “If you get too cold, let me know and we’ll stop and start a fire. We had considerable snow at the higher elevation before I left.”

  Pigeon didn’t speak, but looked settled enough, giving a nod.

  He switched his attention to focus on their path out of town and fell silent, his thoughts taking on new shapes. He’d given in by touching her. Her remark about her own rashness had brought it on. Her giddy reaction had surprised him, but in considering it later, he wasn’t sure why. He was sure she’d made the remark about holding hands to ease his discomfort. Her seeing he had any discomfort at all bothered him, but it was inevitable she’d notice.

  She was very perceptive, far more than he’d realized when she’d written. In actuality, he’d thought her dull of thought. Perhaps, if he’d realized differently, he wouldn’t have sent for her. Then again, if he’d realized a lot of things about her, he would’ve changed his mind.

  He berated himself for his negativity immediately. It did no good to continue to draw comparisons between her voice in a letter and who she actually was. They were wed now, and though the marriage wasn’t consummated, they had spent a night together that would make any sane person think it was. For that matter, any person looking at her would think him addled to refuse it.

  Lafayette gazed ahead at the increasingly rural terrain and, over time, forgot about his new marriage and Pigeon and what would happen at home. The higher they climbed, as he’d predicted, the colder it became, until riding through a mountain pass, a brisk wind brought his teeth together, chattering. He glanced at her and guilt struck him afresh. She was chilled, shaking and wrapped in on herself.

  “We will stop and build a fire,” he said. An hour’s delay wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other with getting there and would prevent her growing ill, something he didn’t need.

  Eyeing the side of the road, he spotted a level patch and pulled into it, circling the wagon to help her alight. He was quite some time creating the fire, what with gathering stones for the pit and stacking brush, but at last, the blaze growing, he took a seat at her side. She calmed within minutes, the heat bringing color to her face, and loosened the blankets around her shoulders. Her stiffness, too, softened. She slid closer, giving him a friendly glance. “If I might use my husband for a pillow?” she asked.

  It sat on the end of his tongue to refuse, but he didn’t. He could not continually show aversion to being near her.

  She took his lack of response for acceptance and reclined, her cheek perched on his knee. “This is much better than the waters of the river. Did you know another passenger prevented me from falling in?” She glanced upwards when asking.

  Lafayette shook his head. He hadn’t heard any details of the ferry accident past the initial reports that more than half of the passengers had fallen in, and he’d fairly held his breath hoping she’d survived.

  “An older man wearing a green waistcoat,” she continued. “He pushed me upwards, and I was able to hang onto the side. A boat was nearby and got to me before I lost my grip.” She fell silent then and wiggled yet tighter to him. “Your sister … you and she are close?”

  He nodded, but realized she couldn’t see it. “Yes,” he said. He coughed, clearing his throat. “I raised her from a young girl. She married a businessman recently and now lives in Little Rock.”

  “You are very happy for her. I can hear it in your voice. My own parents were disappointed in me.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  The weight of her on his leg became most pleasant. She stretched one arm, curving it over his calf, a harmless gesture meant only to stabilize her, but it bonded them further.

  “Well … your sister, I take it, is more socially adept?”

  Than he was. He understood her question and, again, saw her perception. “She likes parties,” he replied.

  “Mmm, I had to attend them, but was never too fond. I found people at parties to be particularly deceitful.” Pigeon rolled onto her back and gazed upward. “They smile and shake your hand while wondering why you looked peaked or ruminating over some rumor they’ve heard about your behavior.”

  “Church congregations are the same.” He made the remark and hushed.

  This brought her upright. “I know you said not to ask about the past, and so I won’t. But do not feel reluctance when it comes up on its own.”

  Propped on one hand, her fingers digging into the soil, she was but a hair’s breadth away, her eyes luminous in the firelight, her lips moist. She pressed them together only to part them again, the motion reflexive, and the savoriness of it hurled him forward. Impulsive, as he’d been the night before, he took hold, but not gentle or kind with the kiss, but uncontrolled. He bit her lip and tasted blood, heard her cry, pain mixed with fervor, and drove in harder, his fingers wrapped around the back of her head, digging into her skull. She was delectable, and he was driven mad, the flames licking at his mind also searing his soul.

  Choked, he shoved to his feet, his wrist pressed to his lips, and sought to deny he’d acted thus by dousing the fire and waking the horse. “We … we must go,” he said. “We’ll only grow colder waiting here.”

  Pigeon made not one complaint. She asked only for help onto the wagon seat then, her hands folded in her lap, rode stiffly at his side.

  Twice. Twice, he’d given in. He was a man destined for hell, having already dragged one woman there after him. What had he been thinking to wed and drag in another? Where was his strength of will? He didn’t want Pigeon to suffer as his lover had, to see her life taken amidst terror and pain.

  As his affair had been riddled with sin, this marriage was founded on the same, the damage of his past forever haunting him, his future with Pigeon not a future at all, but a costly mistake.

  Her lip swelled where Lafayette had injured it and took up a gentle throb. The blood on it dried and congealed. Pigeon avoided touching the area for fear Lafayette would react, not that she was afraid of him treating her roughly again, though by all rights, she should be, but that somehow by recalling it, he’d impale himself.

  He was a man tormented, his violence more self-inflicted pain than anything meant to harm her. What he wanted to enjoy of their marriage, he, for a reason yet unknown, was determined to deny. That gripped her heart, clenching tight, but she didn’t speak of it, and the miles slipped past. The road descended into a valley crossed by a meandering stream that led through the pasture to a crimson barn and, past it, to a small house. It was quaint and lovely, dusted with snow that gave it a holiday-like image.

  She could imagine children there, dancing on its slopes, and green things growing in the spring.

  The horse picked up its pace upon sighting home, so they arrived in barely a breath. Once on her feet, she inspected the area while Lafayette set to unfastening the horse from its traces.

  On closer look, it was older than she’d assumed, but fresh woodwork and clean nails showed where he’d worked to repair it. There was also a woman’s touch, that of his sister, she imagined. Chairs arranged on the stoop for a view of the pasture, a potted flower, brown and crisp between them. Lace curtains hung in the windows, her glimpse through them showing worn furniture set for two, a couple of books on a short table, and an unlit fireplace.

  Not waiting for Lafayette, Pigeon jiggled the handle and entered. It smelled clean, but was chilled from his absence. On her left, the kitchen held a wood-burning stove, a selection of iron cookpots hung on the wall and a set of shelves lined with all manner of preserved food. Stepping forward, she ran her fingers over the tabletop then walked past it toward a doorway into what was Lafayette’s bedroom.

  She held there, staring at his clothing, hanging on a string across the far wall, his shirts showing much wear. A pair of worn work boots sat beneath. A razor and shaving bowl sat on a washstand to the right, above it a small mirror, smudged with his fingerprints. Crossing over to it, she stared at her own reflection and was thus engaged when his shape appeared on her left.

  “You can sleep in Cosette’s old room,” he said. He was very matter of fact in speaking, his tone rough, as it’d been the very first time they’d spoken. “If you’d follow me …”

  Pigeon curved one hand over her hip, nonplussed. “I will not sleep anywhere but here. I am your wife.”

  His eyes grew black, his face hard. “You will do as you are told.”

  “Like a child?” She flounced toward him. “I am not a child, nor am I afraid of you Lafayette.”

  “You should be.”

  His anger could have lit the entire forest at once, it blazed so hot. She faced the flames, her own temper fanning them.

  “I am not,” she repeated. “You asked for this marriage. Did you think to hire a cook and a maid?” I have already told you I am inept at preparing food. I can clean, scrub floors and wipe dust, I suppose, but haven’t ever mended fabric, not once.”

  “You lied to me.” His voice had formed a growl.

  “Lied, stretched the truth, call it whatever you wish. I wanted out of where I was, wanted in your bed instead.” She didn’t strictly mean that, but the words having emerged, she couldn’t call them back.

  He exploded with it, hauling her off her feet and toting her from the bedroom and around the corner into the tiny space that must have been Cosette’s. He tossed her onto the small mattress and whirled to leave, but she vaulted upward, latching hold of his arm. Her weight swung them in an arch toward the wall. Smacking into it hard, she lost her breath, the back of her head stinging from the impact.

  He jumped back, his eyes wide, and dashed away, his footsteps fading.

  It took her quite some time to gather herself. Then, thinking of him, she emerged, figuring he would have run miles into the distance. He was seated in a chair gazing at the empty hearth instead.

  She rounded in front of him and debated on what to say or do. She opted for what was most unladylike. Reaching over her shoulder, she unfastened her dress and, twisting this way and that, sent it fluttering to the floor. She followed with her shift and petticoats, leaving on only her underthings.

  His gaze said more than his words ever had. In them, she saw his hatred of himself, watched lust mix with pride and covetousness. She saw him react to it. He sweated, although the room was icy, goosepimples speckling her limbs. His shirt, dampened, stuck to his skin, outlining fine musculature, thick arms, and a strong chest. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward onto his elbows as if trying to hide his manhood.

  “What do you have to say of your wife?” she asked, tilting her chin. “Then again, why say anything at all? I can see your need with mine own eyes, yet you sit there as if I don’t.”